On The Hill
by korel.c
Summary: There is a hill. There are several jugs of sake. Ichigo, alone. IchiRukiHime, non-canon-compliant.


so this is non-canon and --

Um, I don't know Bleach as well as I should? I'msosorry~

...When I tried to conscript a couple of muses to roleplay out the scenes for me, it was both hauntingly beautiful and comically disastrous. Sakami's Zakke in an orange wig...oh, god. That said, Sakami and Asuma themselves... (Oh, and there are probably little inserts of Sakami in here. I couldn't resist. They are oddly similar, after all. If you see anything that you don't recognise from Bleach, they're Sakami. If you see anything you do recognise, they're not mine.)

I present you, On The Hill.

* * *

The grass rustled as Ichigo made his way to the summit of the hill overlooking the large city that had somehow become his home; he'd expected this almost from the day that he had died. Where else could he have gone?

...If he found himself in a Heaven, as the Westerners called it, with clouds and people with furry wings (and no chance of seeing Ori-- Ruki--anyone he knew-- again) he probably would have been...slightly more than disappointed. It wasn't...the same.

Even if this city was filled with grime, and dust, and dirt, and zanpakutos whipping just a _tad_ too close to one's face, or bankais erupting at the worst moments, or flash steps in several inappropriate moments and too many forbidding, sorrowing, have-no-soul-or-sense-of-humor older brothers, and sake, it was still becoming home. At a very quick rate, too quick for his liking, but still, home.

...And he was developing a taste for sake. He blamed Rangiku. Speaking of which...

He unslung a jug of sake from where it hung from his hip and took a little sip, wincing as it went down; it probably turned his hair a little more white, it was _that _strong.

He had never been one to appreciate clear blue skies, the dance of a hawk, the scream of said hawk, a soft though scratchy grassy hill and a view that went on for miles, but for their sake - hah, sake, he would try.

He took another sip and tried not to remember. Black hair, orange hair, blonde hair, silver hair, they were all the same, after a little while. And when said someone was out on long assignment, long assignment in the living world or with the Hollows or the...oh, being a Captain and mixing things up was never a good idea. Or maybe...

He tossed the jug of sake out down the hill, the clear liquid spilling and glistening in the sun, instantly regretting it as the sake caught the sun's light and his head felt like it was pushing out against his skin and it was a lone sweatdrop, running down her side, and he was burning up, cool hands caressing his forehead while he sulked in masses of pillows and blankets.

"Tch, Hime-chan, the idiot'll be fine. He's been through something like this before, hasn't he?" "...Well..." there are dim memories, dim words, dim sounds that he barely remembered, but remembered well enough for that.

He cursed, and regretted throwing the jug of sake away again. Maybe it was time to go bother Byakuya again. Or get Rangiku to take him drinking. Anything to not remember...and to remember.

He stood and cursed himself - the sun had barely risen past the apex of the sky, he'd only spent less than half an hour here. Was he that weak that he couldn't even spend an hour without needing to drink?

He clenched his teeth and hated the answer and went down into Soul City to find Rangiku. And, even, his paperwork.

* * *

A week later, thoroughly drunk though quickly becoming sober, but still alone, and under the geasa and a sense of honor that will not leave him (even if Rukia did, even if Orihime did, eventually) and under a raging downpour -- there might have been certain...embarassing...moments...Ichigo splashed his way up the muddy slope and cursed himself thoroughly for not simply flash-stepping to the top. Then again, even he recognised that flash-stepping in _this_ condition may not have been the best of ideas.

Of all the things that he could have heard when he got to the top and as far as his eye can see -- which is all a little blurry and he's slightly aware that they're blurry and they're not supposed to be blurry all he can see is thunderclouds. Thunderclouds, and rain.

The smell of the rain is fresh but not clean, not as clean as the cold droplets that soak his clothes and soak him - and absently, he thinks he may have to clean his zanpakuto tonight - and splatter down his face as thoroughly as tears would do, cleansing him. He sticks out his tongue and petulantly catches the raindrops one by one by one, as they drop, thinking of a new habit that - flash - a bright smile and bright person had developed and somehow managed to trick him into doing; he can taste sake on his lips, burning, and a kiss that may have followed, black hair and sass. Kami, did he just think sass? Because /clearly/ he is more drunk that he thought...

His hair is as sodden as it should be, as he should be, and he's lucky that colds won't affect him anymore - or at least, as much as they used to, because he can choose (or at least, he thinks he can), choose to let the colds affect him, the way they used to when he met her (and her) and first fought, watching her (and her) save him, time and time again, showing off her power (and her experience) and her innocence (and her innocence) and naivety (never that) and sheer doggedness (she had that) and...

It is too hard to think, so Ichigo, Captain of the 13th, falls asleep with his mouth open and the water splattering him and sodden-ing (is that a word?) his hair, don't worry about the hangover because he won't be dehydrated.

---

It is late, it is nightfall, and the air is cool, with maybe the scent of fading ozone. Ichigo finds his way up the hill again, to think. He has been doing much thinking, these past few days.

It is in-between the times that may have been darkness, with a candlelight and his zanpakuto resting to the side, and clean, and shining; he is staring off into space and hoping and wishing and above all, dreaming, that either one (or both) could come back (happy smile, bright, innocent advances, black hair, pain in his shoulder or his back or his stomach) and he could be better at not making this mistake, not ever making this sort of mistake ever again - he will never let either of them go now -

...They're not dead, but they might as well be. How long - how much longer will it be before he finds one of them again? How long - how much longer...

That night, he shut himself up, blew out the candle, and tried to get back to sleep.

Tonight, he is not going to. Tonight, he is going to stay awake and sober on this hill, remembering every moment he spent with them, until the sun rises, someone comes looking for him, or Rukia or Orihime come home.

He is three memories away from meeting Rukia for the first time when Rangiku flash-steps right beside him, sweeps a glance around the hill, and in three flash-steps, willing or unwilling, drags him into a bar.

---

"RANGIKU! WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?!"

She is altogether too innocent, smiling gently and maternally. "Why, nothing, Captain Kurosaki. I just wanted to let you know, a certain Vice-Captain came home."

"AND HOW IS TH--Wait. Y--"

"That's a very nice way to greet me home, _Kurosaki_-_san._"

Startled. "Fuck! Rukia!"

"That's not a very nice way to greet me at _all_, Ichigo-_chan_."

"What, are we playing 'how many titles can you pin on me' now?"

"No, I just thought you might want to restrain your language around a lady."

"Who? _You?"_

He doesn't say it. Of course he won't. ...But at the same time he _refuses_ to let this go out the window again. But it's old, it's familiar, and it's...it's Rukia and it's been so long, he drinks in the sight of her. He doesn't need sake. He doesn't need anything else anymore. Not now that she's home.

"Nope!--"

"...Hello, Ichigo-kun."

He is choking on air, on nothing at all, except that she is here and _she _is here and they are here. Except that, oh wait, now he just can't breathe at all. There is a sudden pain at the back of his head and a muted crash that seems the jar the world around him, and all he can see is a worried but still exuberant smile and hands on hips and a twisting smirk and --

Silence.

"I think you killed him."

"Ichigo-kun!"

"Rangiku, do you mind getting a jug of cold water?"

"...I'll get a barrel for you."

"Thanks."

----

The drench of cold water shocks his senses back into working, although when he comes to his senses again he's not totally sure why the heat in his cheeks doesn't cause the water to evaporate.

"DAMMIT, RUKIA, DID YOU HAVE TO DO THAT?" comes out as more of a raspy, choked croak, and to his shock and eternal horror, because he knows Rukia will _never_ stop teasing him about this, his eyes are brimming with tears.

There is a cool hand caressing his cheek and it does not feel like Rukia. He feels that...yes, that water should have evaporated by now.

"Ichigo, you've let yourself get fat since we've been gone. That's unacceptable."

No, wait, that's Rukia. And if she's off to the side that means that --

Well, at least he sort of remembers that part. Everything else is a bit of a black blur.

---

Rukia looks unimpressed. Okay, he can't see her, since she's behind him, but he just _knows_ she's unimpressed. He _knows_. Orihime, on the other hand, is as happy as anyone else he's ever known at any particular point in time, and she is jumping and almost rolling and sliding up and down the hill, and he smirks at her and then smirks at Rukia, who takes the time to tackle him into the grass. Rolling over, he comes face-to-face with her. She is...uncomfortably close, not that he would say anything and risk her gloating at him.

"Oi, what was that for?"

"Existing," but her smirk in return is slightly less heavy on the offensiveness and slightly more on the happy - he can tell she's happy to see him. Or maybe he's just deluding himself -- Orihime, at least, isn't concealing anything. Her breath is discomfortingly warm on his face - his chin - his neck -

"Hey!" --That was for Rukia stealing the now-customary jug of sake off his belt and taking a rather large swig before tossing the rest down the hill.

She flicks a glance at something behind his head, and a moment later an orange blur in a sundress falls onto them, overbalances them, and accidentally rolls them all down the hill.

They are laughing when they climb back up -- well, at least Orihime and Rukia are, Orihime because it was so fun, Rukia laughing at him because he might have ripped his yukata open on the way down on a sharp rock, revealing a tight (and bright orange) shirt that he thought looked good on him, dammit, and Ichigo just scowling and trying to hide a grin. They were back with him, and that was all he needed.

"Right," Rukia announced when she got back to the top of the hill (first, but she always had to be first, the damn girl) "Orihime-chan, help me to sit on him. _He_ has something he needs to tell us."

"Ichigo-kun?" And before he can say yes, no, pleasepleaseplease don't let Rukia get me, 'hime has a part of his arm secured to her body and is, (oh, kami) sitting on his leg and wriggling herself into an altogether-too-comfortable-for-his-manliness-oh-wait-what-was-he-saying-again position, and Rukia has firmly planted a fist to his shoulder and poked certain pressure points. Damn that girl. He meant, damn that girl! Really!

"What?" he tries to ask, warily, knowing that Rukia could be just as serious about asking him for the next round of sake as she is about cutting a Hollow in two. That is to say, not serious at all.

"Ichigo, when were you planning to make a move on either of us?"

"...Ichigo-kun?"

He is sweating. Is he sweating? He's sweating. He wishes he were drunk. Then...oh wait, he can flash-step! That's a brilliant idea! He's going to...oh wait, crap, he can't seem to make his legs move.

"Hurry up, or I'm going to make you _bleed."_

"Ichigo-kun?" She's disappointed, and his throat is working but he can't force out the words.

"'Hime, looks like we're going to have to leave tomorrow--"

"Again?" She looks disappointed, unhappy, her eyes almost brimming with tears.

"--so to give him some more time."

There is a vein pulsing in the corner of his head - not his forehead - but it bloody well hurts, and he can't even raise a hand to rub it.

"You--I--Damn it!"

"So that's a 'no, I'm not even going to try'?"

"Fuck, Rukia, I can't move!" Is that desperation in his voice? Crap. It is. Crap. Hime-chan can also feel another sort of desperation. Crap. She's wriggling some more. Crap.

"Ichigo-kun?"

"So that's a 'yes'." Damn that girl, her smirk is far, far, _far_ too smug. "Go ahead, 'Hime. I'm sure we're gonna get to know each other a lot better from now on..."

Ichigo would have choked, would have been trying to shift in his seat on the grass desperately to cover the discomfort - and the blush - but he _couldn't move_. Damn that girl, damn, damn, damn--

_Fuck. _'Hime shifted in her seating to look directly at him, and he really, really wanted to move -- so he did. He forced his hand out of the paralysis it was in, forced the rest of his body out of the paralysis, unsettled 'Hime from in his lap, grabbed both of them by the wrists, and flash-stepped home, away from the hill.

----

"You're still buying me every round of sake."

"When did you get to like sake? This much?"

"...Around the same time you did."

"Sake's bad for you!"

"...We should get her drunk."

He snorts.

"...Don't you _dare._ You can't make me!"

He looks at Rukia, beyond 'Hime, and in three quick seconds has Orihime reduced into a giggling pile under a whole heap of blankets and pillows, before betraying Rukia in the tickle war and smiling, just a faint bit, at how both of them are happy - and now that he thinks of it, he's kind of happy as well. He smiles a tad less and shouts a tad more when Rukia's fist catches him in his unguarded side. Clearly, she's been away longer than he thought.

Outside the window, where the birdsongs -- because dammit, he wanted birdsong and neither Rukia or Orihime-chan would object -- were barely muted, trilling and fluttering from wing to wing and note to note, a hill loomed at the skyline, bordering the red-purple sky (yes, it was the window, no he wouldn't tamper with the sky even if he really did want to right now) and seemed to watch over them, at least until the candle light faded and the night brought in darkness, high-pitched laughter, and random acts of whim-induced violence.

Oh, and a helluva lot of joy. Can't ever forget that.

* * *


End file.
